Sweet Phyllis sat upon a stile,

With love and me beside her,

Her red lips in a pouting smile.

A pout? Her eyes belied her.

My thoughts were merry as the day,—

And though the joke was shocking,—

I shouted quick, and turned away:

"A spider's on your stocking!"

The fun, of course, I did not see,

But heard an exclamation

That sounded much like "Gracious me!"

And guessed the consternation.

Then Phyllis sat upon the style

Of men who would deride her;

But she no longer sits the while

With love and me beside her.